


Off the Radar

by rainproof



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 22:29:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainproof/pseuds/rainproof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adamska slips off the Patriot's radar.</p><p>Spoilers for MGS/2/3/4.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Off the Radar

**Author's Note:**

> Written back in 2009, originally titled 'Reunion' and moved here for archiving purposes.

Though the room itself was a bare, windowless place, what decor lay arranged within managed to exude a strong sense of personality despite the sparse arrangement. There was a bed shoved in one corner, flat on the ground, topped with a standard issue military sleeping bag. A desk crowned by a single lamp occupied the room’s center, the surface covered in pieces of a disassembled handgun and half-sketched weapon modifications. It was a far cry from the complex the Patriots claimed as their own center of operations far away in America; Zero's realm was furnished luxuriously. This tiny room smelled of oil, sweat and cigars.

Standing there at the center of the room that blue gaze--intense as ever--bored holes into his back, asking silent questions that Ocelot, as per usual chose, to ignore. How did you find me, who sent you, why did you come _now_ , what are you doing here? John was pacing, uneasy. He slipped into Ocelot’s field of vision again, forcing the younger man to make a very real effort not to stare at him.

He was here, wasn’t he? John knew what coming here meant, what it cost, what it said. Ocelot refused to lay his mind out before the man; he would not give John the satisfaction. 

Besides, words were a game, had always been a game between them. 

This time the sharp tete-a-tete that invariably culminated in someone being thrown to the floor and pinned painfully was swallowed by silence. Perhaps John was just too unsettled at finding Ocelot waiting here in the dark to conjure up a properly smug, wry response.... or, and more likely, Adamska thought, the man was recalculating his worth in those quiet moments. His choice between John and Zero demonstrated the depth of the desperate loyalty Adamska invariably attempted to smother for the sake of his own stubborn pride. Even had he wanted to, he could not have stayed away from John. Not for Zero.

His mouth settled in a thin line, eyes fixed on the doorway before him, jaw set and held high in defiance. This devotion, had he seen it in another man, would have been a source of infinite ridicule... something noted, played upon, and discarded as necessary. It was a deep-cut weakness, and they both knew it.

John, pale eye appraising, was good enough not to point this out. 

Whatever conclusion his calculations reached, Big Boss pressed in and settled his huge hands on Ocelot’s hips, closing the distance between them for the first time in long months. He leaned in and inhaled deeply, close enough that Adamska could feel the warmth of him. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. “You came.”

“I came.” 

The next question was asked though John already knew the answer, was already playing three steps ahead in his mind. He was not a man prone to schemes or calculations, but these days he was playing hardball with a brilliant if ruthless opponent. They both knew Zero would pull no punches, and so John would learn to play his game.

Or perhaps Ocelot was just rubbing off on him. 

John’s mouth pressed for a moment against his temple, Adamska’s heart skipped. “Does he know you’re here?”

“No.” 

Why would he have waited these long months if not to lull Zero into a sense of complacency about the loyalty of his remaining Patriots? Certainly not for shits and giggles, or for the privilege of sitting about with his thumb up his ass, watching Eva’s belly swell. The sight of her carrying John’s children did nothing but wash Ocelot with aggravation, two parts annoyance and one part absurd, contrary jealousy. 

Eva.... John did not ask about her, even in that wordless way he asked so many things of Ocelot. 

That betrayal had been a raw one indeed. Good. 

Experimentally, as gentleness between them was rare enough to be awkward, Adamska lifted his hand to the man’s face and pressed it there, barely breathing. Heavy jaw, cropped beard, high cheekbones, eye a piercing, masked blue... Pushing his luck as he always pushed his luck, Ocelot worked his fingers under the eyepatch and peeled it away.

And there it was. He let out the breath he hadn’t meant to hold and drank in the sight of Big Boss. The stark, vulnerable gash drawn where his eye had once been stood out sharp against the plains of his face, and Ocelot felt a tight, horrid little thrill twist in the pit of his stomach. 

Adamska was not a man predisposed to love anything on any terms, but god help him, he loved that scar. 

He loved the way it wrecked the perfect symmetry of John’s face, loved the rugged, terrifying tint it cast upon his expression. Loved the way John shifted uncomfortably when it was revealed, as though his underbelly had been exposed. Loved above all else that he’d been the man to put it there, knowing that each time John looked in the mirror that legendary soldier would gaze upon his mark, indelible, inescapable. 

John’s good eye flickered up to his with a blank look that meant he was thinking, weighing the act and motive, guessing at what the man before him would do. Rather than risking his expression betraying the thoughts sliding through his head, Ocelot rolled up on his toes and crushed their mouths together, fingers digging sharply into his soldier’s fatigues. 

John kissed him back, mouth hot, grip tight--and then shoved the blond away. His expression was caught between anger and suspicion. “Strip.”

Caught slightly off guard, Ocelot held up his hands. Another man might have mistaken the order as one sexual in nature, but he could read the guilty truth in John’s face and guessed his mind. He smirked. “What, don’t trust me?”

John no longer trusted anyone. “Only a fool would trust you.”

“I’m not Eva, you know.” Ocelot informed him, almost coyly.

That earned a sharp, hard look. “ _Strip_. Now.”

John lit a cigar as Adamska obeyed, sucking considerately on the tail and pulling a square metal device from the depths of the desk without once turning his back to the blond. Revolvers, knives, jacket, belt, vest, undershirt, boots, more knives, pants, underwear hit the floor, until Adamska stood in nothing but his socks, pale and cold at the room’s center. He’d filled out since their first meeting, with more depth in his chest and another layer of lean, wiry muscle down his arms. He did not miss the way John’s good eye traced the line of his hips before the man, trying to look bored, flicked the machine on and scanned Ocelot’s figure.

Upon doing a cursory sweep of the room, he then turned to the pile of clothing and the contents of its pockets, examining buttons and buckles for hidden recording devices. These days his movements were tight and cautious as he overcompensated for the missing eye. 

The blond raised a brow. “Top of the line bug-zapper. Picks up on sources of radio transmissions and scrambles output, magnetized to erase and damage recordings.” He smirked. “You could have used that with my clothes on, you know.”

John snorted, and Ocelot folded his arms over his chest. The room was cold.

“Satisfied?”

The man leaned back. “No. You’re too good at what you do to rely on bugs.”

“You noticed,” Ocelot purred, smug. John grunted, ground out his cigar, and he knew the interrogation was over. 

The younger man drew close, confident and shameless in his nudity, and was rewarded when John resumed their previous pose. His thumbs traced circles on Ocelot’s bare hipbones as he drew the blond near, stare veiled and hungry. It was the look the boss wore when he was hunting something--or someone--and Ocelot knew it well. His breath drew in and he cast his eyes up to John’s face, quirking a brow. There was no use attempting to hide his arousal.

This was it. This was what he’d been waiting for, the moment when John’s loneliness or desire simply overcame the need for caution... or was it the moment he realized that Ocelot and his motives would never be transparent, and absolute trust was not a prerequisite for sex? 

Either way, there was something rough and desperate in the way the soldier stepped forward and pushed the younger man until the back of his legs struck the low mattress and his knees buckled. 

_He didn’t expect me_ , Adamska thought breathlessly, splayed there for a moment before John followed him down, parting his thighs with a knee, hand sliding up the pale ribcage before him. He might have laughed, had the hard press and push against his hips not elicited an altogether entirely different sound. As the man caught his wrists and crushed them to the bed, his mind supplied the words John did not say. _He’s glad. I’m useful, to him. He needs me._

In their world want was nothing while need was everything. Ocelot swelled, knowing he was indispensable, knowing that John had no choice but to trust him; he arched himself upwards for a hungry kiss.

Then came the familiar tangle, the push and shove, a thousand tiny battles over each button and zipper on John’s battered fatigues, teeth and nails leaving a trail of bruises and roughened red marks in their wake, marks that never lasted as long as he wished they would. 

When it was over, John didn’t sit up, or dress himself, or light a cigar. He lay quiet, his good eye fixed to the ceiling. Taking this as an invitation, Adamska wrapped a leg over his waist and kissed invisible lines across his chest, drunk on the smell and feel of him as the warmth of orgasm seeped away. 

John’s voice was a low rumble. “Is this the part where Zero’s men batter down the door and take me by force?”

Ocelot laughed and formed his hand into a gun, pressing it to John’s left temple. “If I wanted you dead, I would do it myself. _Bang_.”

The man swatted him away and almost, almost smiled. “Hands off. I need that eye.” He rolled to his side and stared at Ocelot, running his hand along the man’s ribs. “Don’t think this means I trust you.”

“You’d be a fool to trust me,” the blond quipped back at him, content. He was tired, and knew with dead certainty, even if John didn’t, that not a soul in the world knew where they were. He kissed at the man’s stubble and then yawned. 

“You won’t stay long,” the older man observed after a moment’s hesitation.

“Someone will notice I’ve fallen off the radar.” Probably Eva, and the last thing he needed was _her_ asking questions.

“How long...?”

Adamska settled a bit more solidly against the soldier and closed his eyes. He could hear John’s heartbeat falling to a slow, relaxed tempo; his body trusted Ocelot though his brain did not. “A day. Maybe two.”

He thought about that, and was quiet again. “There's work to do. I have... ideas.”

Ocelot looked up, expression dangerously close to petulant. “Tomorrow?”

John's face was an impassive mask; there was no sign of affection there. Still, he shrugged gruffly, and his acquiescence said enough to leave Adamska feeling smug and certain. “Tomorrow, then.” 

A surprisingly tender kiss dropped against his forehead, and Adamska smiled. “Goodnight, boss.” 

John, his fingers rubbing circles against the younger man's skin, was silent.

For once, wrapped in his arms, Adamska dreamt of nothing.


End file.
